The Other One
by Still Marauding
Summary: The line went dead. He cradled his head in his hands, feeling. His phone rang again. A single beep. He picked it up and almost immediately dropped it again. It was his sister, his sweet sister, beaten and bloody, barely recognizable. Every bit of her face was stretched and distorted, discolored and bloody. "You know what happened to the other one."
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: This story explores the theorized sister from the canonical books (Often found in The Great Game) set in the television series. Mycroft's comment in the last episode of series three (quoted below) helped to inspire this particular formation of her character. I hope you enjoy! Please leave comments!**

"Don't be absurd. I'm not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one," Mycroft said, staring out the window. Every muscle in his body was tensed, every atom of his being abhorring the words he had just spoken. He didn't know if he was right to suggest, but if it would save Sherlock, at least in one way, he had to try. For her sake, he had to try.


	2. One

"Mye. Mye, they've given me one phone call. They don't speak English and I convinced them you wouldn't understand. I don't have much time. They want a trade or something. They kept saying the Djin over and over. They want the Djinn. They're going to kill me, I know it. You have to get me out. Please, Mye, get me out. Please! You don't know what it's like, they-"

But he never found out exactly what they were doing. He heard though, under the harsh demand of one of them, the tongue foreign. "The Djinn or the girl dies. You have eight hours."

Her screams echoed underneath, cut short by each blow. He heard her one last time, one last word. His name, turned sour under her agony, cut short by affection. "MYE!"

The line went dead. Mycroft sat back in his chair, feeling as if he had just run a marathon. He cradled his head in his hands, feeling. Feeling so much. Regret and shame and fear. His phone rang again. A single beep. He picked it up and almost immediately dropped it again. It was his sister, his sweet sister, beaten and bloody, barely recognizable except for her auburn curls and her pale blue eyes, barely visible through her swollen lids. Every bit of her face was stretched and distorted, discolored and bloody.

Mycroft felt sick. He gripped the edge of his desk, his stomach rolling. Her final cry echoed in his mind, the sound of her fear struck him like ice in his heart.


	3. Two

Mycroft stepped into the office on shaky legs, his mind racing. At the desk sat a man in his mid-fifties, ex-military and the only man Mycroft had to answer to. He had never abhorred that fact more than in that moment. He was a rigid man who did everything by the books, preferably with loud, noisy guns and bombs. They constantly clashed as Mycroft was much more inclined to use subterfuge and espionage to achieve his means.

This was why Isla was in Yemen in the first place. Looking back it was terribly stupid to have sent her, but the documents were highly classified and extremely important. He may have been a proponent for espionage, but he didn't trust any of his people. They spied on people for money.

So he had sent his little sister, a master of languages even when compared to he and Sherlock. She wasn't even officially part of MI-6. She was still studying at university, barely twenty-one, her whole life ahead of her. And now she had hours.

"I need an extraction team," Mycroft said, burying his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking. Isla's voice still rang in his ears, pleading for his help, her broken form tattooed against his eyelids. "An asset has been compromised. She's been taken hostage by the AQAP in Yemen while delivering information on the Djinn to Operative 2461."

The man turned to his computer, taking far too long to type something into his computer and read the results. He answered, equally slowly, "There are no documented operatives in that area of Yemen besides 2461. No operatives were deployed to meet with them, nor is there any record of information sent to 2561."

"This was meant to be off the books- by order of the Minister of Defense. Her name is Isla Holmes, she is a stu-"

"Holmes? Any relation, Mycroft?"

"She's my sister, sir." The last word stung his tongue like acid.

"Why on earth would you send your sister to Yemen? She has no training, no skills-"

"My sister is the most gifted linguist I have ever met. She learned every dialect spoken in the country in under three hours. None of the Agents were proficient in Yemeni Arabic-"

"That is wonderful, Mycroft, but she is not an agent! What did you expect, sending her into a war zone? What happened to the intelligence?"

"It was safely delivered as planned."

"At least she's not entirely incompetent."

"Sir-"

"No, I cannot justify risking soldiers' lives for one girl. If the intelligence was at stake it might be a different story, but she is simply a civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time. You have to step back from your brotherly compassion and look at the bigger picture." He looked over at Mycroft, his face impassive. "I am sorry for your loss."


	4. Three

Mycroft looked up, his eyes red from crying. Everyone was long gone, the cubicles outside his office empty, the chatter gone. His door was shut and locked, his phone lay upside down on his desk. He had called in every favor he could, and still, no one could or would help. One life in the AQAP camps wasn't enough to motivate. She was just a number to them.

His computer monitor blinked on, unbidden. The hour had at last come. Her eyes shone underneath the hijab, though not with fear or sorrow. They flashed furiously, her brows set. She had always been so brave, so determined, so much like Sherlock in that way. His heart fell at the thought of what her loss would do to him.

"Looks as if the big brother does not care as much as you thought," came a man's voice, his face out of frame. "He has decided to watch you die instead."

"My brother would _never_ do that," she snarled, her eyes narrowed. "He would do anything, but you gave him no time. He will find you, and he will skin you and make you beg for death."

The man laughed, his booming voice joined by others also out of frame. "That is big talk, little one," came another voice. Mycroft felt his skin crawl but he refused to look away. He owed her that.

"Is that what you call your manhood?" she snarled back. "I thought it was supposed to be longer than my eyelashes."

A hand cracked against her face along with a hurled insult. The blow knocked her off balance and she was roughly shoved back into place. "No more time for games." Came the first voice again. He appeared in the frame, face still out of view, this time wielding a thick sword. Isla turned to the camera, her face braking from its mask of fury to something earnest, soft, the little girl he had read to all those years ago. She addressed him in English, leaving behind the harsh tones of her captors.

"Tell Mummy and Daddy and Sherlock how much I love them. Don't blame yourself Mye, I know you tried. I love you forever. And tell Alfie yes-"

Her voice was cut off as he swung. Mycroft closed his eyes, even though he promised he wouldn't. He couldn't bear to see her beheaded, to see life leave her eyes and run from her neck. He opened them though, a split second later, determined to make good on his promise.

The screen was black.


	5. Four

They stood at the grave, shoulder to shoulder, long after everyone else had left.

It was just a gravestone, nothing more. There was no body to bury, nothing left of her but crates of books and old perfume, the scent still clinging to the clothes shed left hanging in her closet. Sherlock hadn't boxed any of it up, hadn't moved a thing in their shared apartment as if he was simply waiting for her to return.

Mycroft hadn't told him the whole story. He hadn't told anyone the whole story. It weighed on him like lead, pressing him a bit further into the earth with each step. He seemed to have aged overnight.

Sherlock put his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. It was uncharacteristic of him, this sudden act of compassion. It only made him feel worse though. She had asked for his help and he had failed her. Perhaps if she had called Sherlock she would still be here. Sherlock wasn't constrained by rules or doctrine or etiquette. He wouldn't have let her down.

"I don't understand why she went there in the first place," Sherlock said quietly. "Of all places, why Yemen?"

Mycroft didn't answer. Sherlock didn't expect him to. He turned, instead back towards were his car was parked and began walking, Sherlock falling into step behind him. They rode in silence to a small restaurant, one he knew she had liked, where the rest of the people sat, talking in hushed voices.

The church had been full, and now, so was the dining room. Isla had had many friends, more than they'd known about: teachers, classmates, people she had worked with. She wasn't like Mycroft and Sherlock in that way. She didn't think the same way. Instead of cool logic and deductions she could read your life's story on the planes of your face, tell if anyone was lying, change any situation to suit her fancy. And yet she did this in a way that achieved a subtlety neither him nor Sherlock could ever muster, did it all without looking down on others for being stupid or slow. He had always looked at it as a defect, that she was leaving herself wide open for heartbreak and trauma, but what had closing himself off done? Now he suffered alone, but for the remainder of his family.

He heard this over and over in the hushed conversations of those around him, in the stories they told to the family as they sat off on their own. They helped, he thought, at least for his parents. These stories of the young woman they had raised, kind and intelligent.

A young man came to the table last of all, his eyes red from crying. He looked lost, unsure of his surroundings. Mycroft almost sent him away before he said anything. After, he wished he had.

"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes? Mycroft and Sherlock? I'm Alfie- Alfie Winters. Isla and me- well, she never told you about me. She always said it wasn't the right time. But she told me all about you. She loved you all so much. She never stopped talking about you two," he said, turning to Sherlock and Mycroft. "Her two brilliant brothers, always there for her." That hit him like a physical blow. "The Politian and the Detective. I just wanted to say- well, I-" he paused, wiping at his eyes. "I loved Isla. I loved her from the day we met four years ago at uni. And I was going to ask her to marry me."

He dug into his pocket, visibly trying to keep the tears at bay. He pulled out a small ring box and placed it onto the table. "I want you to have this. And I wanted you to know how truly blessed I was to have been lucky enough to love your daughter. I don't know what I'm going to do without her."

His mother and father rose and hugged him like a son.

Mycroft read about him in the papers later. They found him with the gun still in his hand, a photograph in the other.


	6. Five

Isla closed her eyes as the man swung the blade, her mind racing. She waited for the precise second before throwing herself out of its way, kicking out with her bound legs. She connected, hard, and the man went flying into the camera, knocking it from it tripod. She pulled furiously at the bonds tying her hands, but it was no use, they wouldn't budge. The others advanced on her, four in total as their comrade struggled to his feet. There was a deep gash under one of his eyes that was bleeding profusely.

There was no escape now. She couldn't free herself, couldn't run. She closed her eyes and steeled herself, trying to remember the faces that mattered, so she could hold them in her mind's eye until the end. Mycroft and Sherlock stared back at her, rare smiles on their faces. Mummy and Daddy too, looked on, along with Alfie.

There was no pain, no white light. Just ringing as if from bells. She kept her eyes closed, wondering (or perhaps hoping) that her brother had been wrong, that there was something after other than nothingness and decay. But after a moment the ringing continued and she opened her eyes. But it wasn't angels. It was her ears reaction to gunshots. Five precisely aimed gunshots that left her captures dead upon the floor, their blood slowly pooling around them. She struggled backwards as she spotted the gunman still in the door. He too was foreign, with short hair and bright, intelligent dark eyes. He stared at her, but didn't say anything. He pocketed the gun, cocking his head to the side.

"Thank you," she said warily, still struggling against her bonds.

He turned and walked down the hallway, his hands shoved in his pockets, whistling as if he hadn't just killed five men. She struggled forward but fell, next to the man who had wielded the sword. It lay by his side. She grabbed it and sawed through her restraints the best she could. She heard a door slam shut as they fell away.


	7. Six

**Thank you so much for reading! It means a lot to me. I hope you are enjoying my story so far! Please review! I love reading them and often it helps with my writing process:) **

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It was nearly two weeks since she had escaped, raggedly clothed and armed with all the weapons she could carry. Her stolen jeep had long since run out of fuel. She had left it, abandoned, along the side of the dirt track that served as a road in this godforsaken desert. There was barely a living thing that crossed her path, save a few desert hare. These she shot when she saw, though the large caliber left little to eat. She soon learned to hit the top of the head, leaving the body mostly untouched. But her strength was failing now. Her muscles shook with each step and the sun baked down upon her, leaving her parched.

There came a low rumbling from behind her, a cloud of dust thrown up in its wake. Another jeep, far in the distance. She looked around, but she knew there was nowhere to hide, nothing to be done. She pulled off the hijab, determined to die with the sun on her face and her hair free just as it had always been. There was no point trying to blend in.

She raised her gun as the jeep came level. She saw the men in the vehicle do the same. She dropped hers, however, when she saw their faces, suntanned under their army caps. It was too late, for one of them fired, catching her below the shoulder. She stood in shock, the pain not quite caught up.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but the blackness was upon her. She fell back into the dust, the sun scorching her skin.

"You're lucky the doctor had a layover," came a voice to her left. She opened her eyes groggily. "He's one of our best. Off to Afghanistan. You should be glad the Army was so cheap with his airfare."

"It's only £57," she said, the number swimming back to her. "No wonder they were cheap."

"You seem in a remarkably good mood for someone who was-" he stopped, color creeping into his cheeks. "Well, I'm sorry about the whole…" He trailed off.

"You were the one that shot me?" she asked, clinically. There was no anger in her voice.

"Like I said, I'm sorry about that-"

"Its fine, really," she said, sitting up. She winced, the ache settling into her body. "After the last three weeks, it's not even on the top ten worst."

"Why were you out there anyway?" the soldier asked. He was young, with kind brown eyes and freckles that ran across his nose like footprints. "You look like hell."

"It rubs off on you," she said bitterly. He opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by another voice.

"Robertson. Don't you have rounds to be making?"

Robertson stood, saluting the man who had just entered. "Captain."

"At ease," he said. Robertson scuttled off, throwing one last look back at her. The Captain approached and she could tell at once that this was the doctor Robertson had told her about. Her eyes roved over him, slowed by whatever they were pumping her with to keep the pain at bay. He had shortly cropped blonde hair and steely blue eyes, was shorter in stature and walked with purpose and authority. He surveyed her, finally saying, "So our Jane Doe finally awakes."

When Isla didn't answer, he continued. "Four broken ribs, countless cuts and bruises and a severe gunshot wound. Not to mention acute dehydration and the beginnings of malnourishment. You were also armed with an AK-47, three handguns of various makes and a sword," he stopped, eyes narrowed. "Now my men raided that camp. Yes, we know about the camp, and yes we know that you were a prisoner there, we found evidence of your imprisonment. We also found no less than 25 dead insurgents at the camp. Who _are_ you?"

Her face didn't change at his words. The mysterious man may have killed her five executioners, but she had taken care of the rest with her stolen guns. It had been easy, thinking back. No one had expected it. All those years of shooting pots in the backyard with Sherlock had finally paid off. Most of them hadn't even their guns on them, relying on the secluded nature of their camp as all the protection they needed. This proved to be a most fatal mistake.

"Enter the code 95743-MYC-9113-84007 into your requests along with the message 'M+S on the tarmac at arrival. 2461, encrypt Djinn."

"Who are you?" he asked again, his face set.

"I don't know anymore."

It was true. She knew she should feel something, anything. After all, she had just massacred the remainder of the camp, at least fifteen men. Their blood was on her hands. But she felt nothing. She had survived, just as she had prayed to. She had avenged herself on them for every horrible, godforsaken thing they had done to her, for four days of torture. But now, all she felt was empty, a chill spreading through her veins.


	8. Seven

Mycroft entered the flat without knocking. For a moment he thought he had accidentally walked in to the wrong apartment, though a second look disproved this.

Sherlock and Isla's flat had always been over-crowded and slightly messy, a bit too small for the pair of them. Sherlock's science equipment lay strewn throughout the kitchen and tiny sitting room. Microscopes, beakers and graduated cylinders sat on nearly every surface, some full of various bodily fluids, others with foul smelling chemical. A large sign was posted on the microwave in bold letter, reading: ABSOLUTELY NO SCIENCE IN THE MICROWAVE. A similar sign was posted on the refrigerator, this one reading: SCIENCE ON THE LEFT. Papers were tacked to the walls, some with actual tacks, some with penknives and other various sharp objects. Every other available surface seemed to be covered with books. They lined the floor and the windowsills, sat double-parked on the shelves. Bookmarks hung out of some, while others lay open and still others were marked by small rocks and other books.

But now it seemed bare, Isla's books boxed up, the signs missing from their respective appliances. Everything that had belonged to her was gone, every last scrap of paper, every lone sock. Sherlock looked up as he stepped inside, his face set.

"Brother," he said formally.

"Brother," Mycroft answered in equal formality.

"Well now that you've had your check-in, if you could kindly leave. I'm busy," Sherlock said bad-temperedly, turning back to one of the few boxes that still lay open.

"I can see. Two weeks and it's like she never existed," he said coolly. He regretted it as soon as it passed his lips, but it was too late now. He'd have to hold his ground.

"Shut up Mycroft," he spat, wheeling around. "And get out."

"That was her favorite book," Mycroft said, picking up the worn little volume. "_The Hobbit_. I used to read it to her all the time when she was small. And now it's in the rubbish heap with the rest of it."

"You haven't any idea what it's like to be surrounded by all of this stuff."

"No, I don't."

They stared at each other, a silent truce reached. Mycroft pocketed the book, leaving Sherlock to the rest of his packing.


	9. Eight

Mycroft found himself thinking back to his childhood at quiet moments. He remembered the day his little brother was born, just like he remembered every other day from the time he was two, though this day, perhaps, was a bit more exciting than many of the others. He remembered the ride to the hospital and the waiting room that smelled like ammonia. He remembered his and his father's dinner of fast food chips and burgers, followed by a large slice of chocolate cake, which was Mycroft's favorite. No one told him to eat his vegetables or run around a bit outside, for Mycroft had a tendency to put on weight. No, today he could eat all he liked and no one said a thing.

The baby came a few hours later, screaming at the top of his lungs. He didn't stop either, not through his bath, nor his blankets, nor when they handed him to their mother. He had a tangle of dark curls and pale blue eyes, though it was hard to catch a glimpse of them as they were squeezed shut all the while he screamed.

Mycroft stepped forward and brushed a finger gently across his cheek. The baby looked at him, or seemed to, (Mycroft knew he couldn't really see him) and squawked angrily.

"Brother, dear," he said quietly, and the baby fell silent, closing his great big eyes.

He remembered the second time, when he was fifteen. This time had been different. It was too early. There were no chips or chocolate cake. They were silent in the ammonia scented waiting room. But this time, it was only Mycroft and his little brother, Sherlock. Father was with Mother and Father would call them in when they were ready, because father thought the baby was going to die.

"Is she going to die?" Sherlock asked, seemingly reading his thoughts. Mycroft looked at him, unsure of what to say. He was, after all only seven years old and the truth could be a lot for a seven year old. Of course, Mycroft thought, it wasn't fair that his parents left him to figure out what to tell him. He was, after all, only fifteen years old. But they were ordinary and most likely didn't expect Sherlock to deduce it, though, he thought bitterly, they should always expect it by now. They had, after all, two geniuses for sons.

Mycroft was saved answering by the door. His father poked his head out and gestured for them to follow. They were silent as they walked down the hall. Sherlock grabbed on to Mycroft's hand, and Mycroft gulped back tears. He knew that somber look meant nothing good.

She was beautiful, his sister. She had the same eyes as the pair of them, pale blue and observant. She had a head of curls just like Sherlock had had thought they were lighter, like his our hair. But she was so small, so very small. Both his parents smiled down at her and he couldn't help it. Mycroft began to cry.

His parents looked up, astonished. Mycroft never cried, barely lost his temper, was always the perfect model of a son. Sherlock looked up at him and burst out sobbing. "I knew it!" I knew she was going to die!" he wailed into the bed sheets.

"Boys!" Mummy said sharply, though she took hold of Mycroft's hand. They looked up, through their tears, and turned to their mother. Their father sat on her other side, staring at the little girl.

"This is your sister. And she isn't dead and we are not going to let that happen. She will be just fine in a few weeks. The doctor's say she's strong. Now say hello."

"What's her name Mummy?" Sherlock asked quickly, wiping away tears. Daddy pulled him up onto the bed and sat Sherlock on his knee.

"Her name is Isla. Isla Holmes."

Mycroft squeezed his mother's hand as he looked down at his baby sister. He smiled, and promised himself that if she lived he'd look out for her the rest of his life. He remembered how he'd broken that promise, how he'd let her down in the most essential of ways.

And still he remembered how Isla never spoke until she was nearly five years old. Not a single word or even a sound. Whereas Sherlock never shut up, she was silent as the grave. She'd simply follow one of them around, clutching her blanket. How Mummy and Daddy had taken her to doctors, but they could find nothing wrong with her. So she'd simply been allowed to continue her silent treks through the house.

How he'd often found her stuck in one of Sherlock's many cardboard box ships, cast as a damsel in distress or an unsavory sea captain in one of his brother's endless pirate fantasies. She didn't seem to mind and she was a good playmate for Sherlock as she didn't talk back. Whenever she saw Mycroft, however, she would jump up and down and hold up her arms so that he would pick her up. He always knew what she wanted. He'd carry her into the library along with a worn little book and read to her. Always the same, _The Hobbit_. He was quite sure she could read it herself, but he didn't mind. He loved how excited she was for him to come home, and that it didn't involve getting hit with wooden swords like Sherlock's idea of playtime.

Or how later she'd turned to her own bits of paper, filling them with her own stories and poems, bits of herself cast in ink, so full of feeling and life that it sometimes shocked him. She'd never send him bits again, almost always incoherent to him, for they were just fragment, pieces that fit inside a much bigger picture inside her head, on that, no matter how much she wrote, never seemed to fully form on paper. Or perhaps he'd never seen it, perhaps there were other confidents, that Alfie Winters or one of the girls from her school.

He'd never know now. His computer beeped, pulling him out of his reverie. There were two messages. One announced the death of his boss, an un expected heart attack. He felt nothing as he read the somber email, but perhaps slight satisfaction as blood too covered his hands. This only increased when the Minister of Defense went on to name him his successor. If only it had been two weeks ago.

The second message was brief, a direct dispatch from the field office in Yemen. He read it with furrowed brows, immediately picking up his phone and dialing. It rang twice before the person on the other end picked up.

"I need a car sent immediately," He paused, listening to the question at the other end. "To the airport. But we need to make a stop on the way."


	10. Nine

Isla leaned against the window of the plane, taking comfort in its slight chill. Everything pained her, her shoulder worse of all. The Captain had all but refused to let her leave, saying that she wasn't stable enough to fly. She thought he had been right about that, though the plane came with a well-stocked liquor cabinet that kept most of her symptoms at bay. Or at least distracted her from them.

As she stared down at the approaching views of home, she felt like she should feel something. Relief, joy, elation at finally reaching the destination that she had so fiercely fought for. But the face of the Captain kept swimming back to her, his disapproval of her perceived person. She knew what he thought she was. A murderer, and a skilled one at that. And he wasn't wrong.

She used to think that taking a life was hard, that it required something innately different in a person. She now knew she was wrong. Or at least half wrong. It had been easy to pull that trigger, to watch the life drain from them. She didn't have nightmares about their dead faces, felt no regret. No, the nightmares were of what had happened before, nightmares she couldn't drive away.

The plane landed on the tarmac with a thud. She got up and crossed to the door, waiting impatiently for it to be opened. No that they were on the ground she was anxious to get out. Finally, it seemed, the door lowered and she stepped out into uncharacteristic sunshine.

She spotted the black car right away, the government plates and the driver. She saw them next, their faces dropped into identical expressions of shock. Sherlock surged forward but Mycroft stood, rooted to the spot. She stayed at the top of the stair case, suddenly not as happy to see them as she had imagined. It didn't make sense, this sudden switch, was no doubt caused by shock or alcohol or some unholy combination of both. They looked the same, but for their shock expressions. She didn't feel the same. It felt as if it had been years instead of weeks.

She descended the stairs slowly. Sherlock met her at the bottom, wrapping her in a tight hug that sent shooting pain through her shoulder and ribs. Sherlock stepped back as she cried out, still holding her by her un-injured shoulder. It was if he didn't want to let go, didn't believe she was real.

"Isla," he said, almost reverently. "Isla! We thought you were dead. What happened to you?"

His eyes traced up and down her, cataloguing every one of her features. "I got shot. After I was imprisoned. Do you know what the Taliban do to woman they capture?"

Sherlock's eyes widened at her words, his face a picture of disgust and empathy. She didn't know why she had said it, not until she found Mycroft's face, Mycroft's horrified face. His horrified, guilty face that confirmed everything she had feared, every horrible thought that had crossed her mind in those last eight hours. That he had left her.

"Isla I-"

"I want to stop at Alfie's before you take me home," she said, cutting him off. Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other uneasily, their eyes sorrowful.

"Isla he's-" Sherlock began, but he trailed off. She looked between the two of them, feeling sick.

"No. No. Mycroft, where is Alfie? You take me to see him right now or so help me, those twenty insurgents will look like a temper tantrum."

"I'm so sorry Isla. He- he's dead."

She had thought she felt numb on the plane, indifferent. Now she wished for numbness instead of this mind-splitting pain. Black dots obscured her vision, her breath caught in her chest. She let go, letting the blackness take her.


	11. Ten

**Sorry for the wait! I was super busy this week with school but I should have a few chapters posted this weekend. Please review! Hope you enjoy:)**

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Isla woke later, laid out on a couch in a dimly lit room she recognized as her sitting room. The furniture remained the same though she was surrounded by boxes. They reminded her of when she was small, the pirate fantasies she and Sherlock had played at.

She sat up, everything aching. Memories of Mycroft's words flooded back to her. Alfie dead. Alfie had killed himself, because of her. They were going to get married, she had found the ring in his sock drawer, seen it in his face when he looked at her. But he had been waiting, she knew, until after they had graduated. Three months away, now everything was gone.

She stared at her brothers, feeling dead inside. They stared back, surveying her with mixed looks. It was she who finally broke the silence.

"So I'm dead then? You had the funeral and everything?"

This seemed the last thing either of them expected. Their faces, however, told her exactly what she needed to know. She stood, ignoring the pain shooting through her body at the sudden movement and crossed to the door. "Then I'm going out," she called over her shoulder, her voice hollow.


	12. Eleven

It was hours later, in the early morning that Mycroft found her. Not due to any merit of his own, but simply because she wanted to be found. She was like Sherlock in that way. He wondered if he had taught her the art of hiding.

He pulled up to the dirty alley and got out, eyeing the space doubtfully. There was nothing but a few boarded up windows, nothing to suggest why she'd come. He pulled the dirty piece of paper from the wall that had been her signal, pointed expertly at one of the many security cameras his people were monitoring. It read only two words, his name, in her swirling scrawl.

"Took you long enough," she said, and he turned, trying to place her voice. She jumped down from a balcony, landing with ease that surprised him. His eyes narrowed as he took in her dilated pupils and flushed face.

"Are you high?" Mycroft asked angrily.

"No, I'm dead," she answered sarcastically, swinging herself into the car. Mycroft stood, glowering at her. She didn't seem to notice as she continued. "I'm dead, Alfie's _really_ dead, and I killed about twelve people last week. A cup of tea didn't do the trick."

Mycroft listened, his eyes roving over her. He couldn't believe it. If it were Sherlock, sure, but this was Isla, his baby sister who never tried to upset anyone. But maybe she wasn't anymore, not really. He couldn't deny it any longer, something had changed in her, something was broken, lost, gone.

His mind flashed back to when she and Sherlock were younger. _Caring is not an advantage._ The mantra he had repeated so often, especially to her. Sherlock never seemed too interested into others, not interested enough to get himself hurt. But she was always coming home with broken hearts that seemed to last a day before she jumped back in.

This was different.

"Whoa, you let Sherlock drive?" she said from the backseat.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock said sternly from the driver's seat, but made no more comments on her intoxicated state. Mycroft climbed in after her, still glowering. They drove in silence for a few moments, Isla seemingly oblivious to Mycroft's foul mood. Finally she spoke again, sliding down the seat to look at the stars. She balanced her feet, which were now shoe-less (though he didn't remember her taking them off) on the back of Sherlock's seat.

"How come you didn't send anyone Mye?" she asked, eyes unfocused. "Robertson said they weren't sent by you. Didn't you get my call? You never even said anything."

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Sherlock's eyes were on him, his eyes narrowed. But he knew he owed her the truth, or at least part of it. "I couldn't get authorization."

"That's stupid," Isla said, laughing, though it wasn't funny at all.

"Isla, I'm sorry-"

"I know," she said quickly. Her face was strangely content, younger looking even. They rode in silence the rest of the way back.


	13. Twelve

"What did she mean?" Sherlock asked, his brows furrowed. He spoke in a hushed tone, though there was a definite edge. "What did she mean about calling you? You said they sent a tape of her-" he stopped himself then, looking away. There was a look of disgust on his face.

"They did, of sorts, but that was after- She had called before, she told me they had taken her and what they wanted for her freedom-"

"Then why didn't you give it to them? She's your sister, for god's sake. You nearly got her killed, put her through unspeakable torment. Do you enjoy the pain of others Mycroft?" he snarled.

"I did everything I could, but my hands were tied. Whetherby wouldn't budge-"

"So you left her to die? Are all of your government secrets worth it?"

"That's easy for you to say, Sherlock! You have no idea the millions of lives that information holds. You have no idea what it's like to deal entirely in secrets surrounded only by liars."

"Stop. Just stop."

They turned. Isla stood in the doorway, her hair mussed, eyes red from crying. It had been hours since she'd awoken from her drug induced stupor. Sherlock had sat with her for much of it, silent, listening as she told him where she'd gone and what had happened in Yemen. She didn't tell Mycroft any of this, but he listened out of sight all the same. She'd visited the boy's grave she said, and she spoke in such a timid, almost petrified voice that it was alarming.

_"Sherlock, I didn't feel anything. It's like he never existed. I can't wrap my head around it, but since I came back I don't feel like myself. I don't even feel bad about those men I killed-"_

_"Why should you Isles?" Sherlock asked, smoothing her hair back from her face. Mycroft had noticed these little things, the way he would reassure himself that she was still here. A hand on her shoulder, or a brush of her face, anything to prove that he wasn't imagining it. "They were going to kill you. I mean, look what they did to you. You nearly died."_

_"But Sherlock- I really loved Alfie. I mean, I think I did. But now…" she trailed off, her shoulders slumping. "Sherlock, all I can think about are those men."_

_"It's ok to be frightened-"_

_"No, Sherlock. I want to kill them. All of them. All of the rotten, loathsome people who ruin people's lives."_

_"Isla."_

_"I was going to work in a museum, Sherlock. I was going to get married and be boring and the whole lot. Then I was going to die. But since that man came and helped me get away- Sherlock, I'm not anything anymore."_

"Mye, you haven't called anyone? No one knows I'm here?"

"How could I, with your little-" he stopped himself at a look from Sherlock. "No."

"Fine then, good. You need someone who you can trust, who won't screw you over, right? That's what happened in Yemen. So now, you'll have me. It's perfect. No one needs to know I exist except you and Sherlock and Mum and Dad and I can train in MI-6 under a fake name. You can sort everything out."

"No, absolutely not," Mycroft said quickly.

"That's crazy Isles," Sherlock said at the same time.

"No its not, and you both know it. What do you expect me to do, go back to school? I can't. Not when I know what kind of people there are out there and how much damage they can do. And I need to find-" she broke off, her mouth snapping shut. But try as they might, they couldn't convince her otherwise, and eventually Mycroft gave in, though Sherlock never did.


	14. Thirteen

**New Chapter! Please, please review, they are actually so important to me! They really help me write better! Feel free to leave predictions!**

Nearly two and a half years and twenty-six languages later and Isla still felt like she was nothing but Mycroft's glorified personal assistant. And it wasn't as if she wasn't qualified. She'd past every course, every challenge thrown at her with flying colors, had the unrestrained confidence of every instructor that she was entirely over qualified for fieldwork. And still, she was stuck in London, without even her own flat, as Mycroft viewed that as contrary to her objective of 'staying dead,' though she knew he was simply massively over protective after Yemen.

She sighed, pushing open the door to the shop, her eyes roving over the hundreds of expensive suits. The man behind the counter completely ignored her, as she expected. She pulled out her phone and dialed, holding it against her ear as she rifled through the racks. Mycroft answered on the second ring.

"Hello?" he said, sounding perturbed.

"You talked to Ahmet, then?" she replied, the corner of her mouth twitching up. "I told you he said-"

"Yes, yes, now what is it that you want?" he said, cutting her off. She rolled her eyes, annoyed.

"How's the diet going?" she asked, comparing two tuxedos.

"If you called simply to be petulant-"

"I'm picking up your tux for the Ministers' Ball, and I need to know whether you went down a size."

"No."

"Satin lapels?"

"Yes."

"Waist coat?"

"Yes."

"Three or five buttons?"

"Five."

"Really?"

"Fine, three," he said with a sigh. "And while you're out, stop at Selfridges. I have an order waiting there under-"

"Yes, yes, I'll have it all done. I'll be back around four, I'm stopping over to see Sherlock."

"Isla-"

But she hung up before he could finish. Now she was not only doing Mycroft's shopping, but his date's too. She made a mental note to stay out late tonight. Or to not go home. She had already walked in on Mycroft and one of his lady friends and that was indeed uncomfortable enough.

Isla paid for the tux and left, grinding her teeth. She hung it in her car and climbed inside. Mycroft preferred to use a service, but she loved driving herself. It was the only time she really felt free anymore, absolutely in control. She had stupidly thought that this whole _thing_, this whole, dead, not really, thing would leave her freedom, but really it had just taken it away. Well, Mycroft had done that. It was hard to be free when you lived with your thirty-eight year old brother. A brother who never let you out of his sight and not-so-secretly taps your phone just to make sure you don't do anything stupid.

She pulled into a spot outside Selfridges and got out, locking the door behind her. A doorman pulled open the door for her and she nodded at him before crossing directly to the customer service desk.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, I need to pick up a dress under Holmes."

The woman behind the counter typed quickly before shaking her head. "Nothing was ordered under Holmes."

"Perhaps Harrison?" Isla asked. The woman surveyed her, one eyebrow raised before typing once again.

"We have one black evening gown under that name."

"That's the one."

"It's already been paid for, so I'll need to see some ID."

"Yes," Isla said, pulling out her card. She handed it to the woman without a second glance. She peered at it suspiciously before handing it back, along with the dress. Isla left without a second glance, placing the dress next to Mycroft's tux. She dialed her phone as she climbed into the driver's seat and pulled into traffic.

"Sherlock?" she asked as soon as he picked up.

"You know I prefer to text."

"Well I'm driving. And I'm almost there." There was silence at the other end of the phone. Isla sighed. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"I've been on a case."

"I'll be over in twenty then."

Sure enough she arrived twenty minutes later on the dot with a bag of Chinese food in one hand, several newspapers in the other. She didn't bother to knock. Sherlock rarely remembered, or cared, to lock his doors. It had always been a problem when they had lived together. She placed the bag on his kitchen table, careful not to disturb whatever it was floating around in the beakers surrounding Sherlock's microscope. Then she crossed the messy, overflowing room to yet another, though this one did not contain a fridge, instead a grungy looking Sherlock draped in a dressing gown. He was staring at the wall, his hands under his chin, a look of utter concentration on his face. So, of course, she only had one option.

She hit him in the head with her stack of newspapers.

"What are you-?" Sherlock spluttered, glaring at her angrily. She ignored him and flopped down next to him on the couch, putting her feet on the table.

"I brought Chinese food," she said. She stared in the direction Sherlock had been fixating, finding a muddle of photographs and numbers. Then she turned back to him, taking in his appearance. "You need to go and eat. Now."

"You're one to talk. You've lost nearly a stone and Mycroft hasn't told you off."

"Just go eat."

Sherlock got up, glowering and retrieved the bag, bringing it back into the sitting room. He opened it up and pulled everything out, handing her a pair of chopsticks. She shook her head, digging into her coat pocket. She pulled out a cigarette and put it in her mouth. Sherlock took it and stuck it behind his ear.

"Hey!"

"I know what you're doing and it's stupid. We've already been through this."

"Whatever," she said, taking the chopsticks. "What's new with you?"

"I've been working on this set of murders in Chelsea. Three dead, all exsanguinated, no hands, no feet, faces and teeth removed."

"Sounds like something the Russians might be involved with. It's too clean for the Italian Mafia and it seems like they were placed to send a message. It's those photos over there, right?" she said, pointing to the ones Sherlock had been staring at. He nodded. "See who can see the bodies from their windows. I'll tell you if I hear any chatter."

"I'll check it out," Sherlock said, digging into the food. He ate with zeal, confirming that he, as he so often did on a case, was going off food. She too ate, but with less enthusiasm. He was right, of course that she'd been going off meals, and he was right that she was doing it to seemingly add some control to her life. She hated when he was right.

They ate in silence, Sherlock still surveying the crime scene photos. Isla didn't mind. If she was honest, she missed him more than she would ever admit.

"When did you get that?" Isla asked, noticing a skull on the mantel piece. Sherlock glanced over, his mouth full.

"I don't know, a few months ago?"

Isla took her cigarette from behind Sherlock's ear and lit it, inhaling deeply. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. She was glad. She got enough of the guilt trips from Mycroft, even though he too smoked. It was an odd phenomena, one that she believed stemmed from their mother's abhorrence of the practice. And Mycroft was loath to upset mother.

"Isla!" Mycroft said from the doorway. She jumped.

"For the love of God, Mycroft," she said glaring at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Mycroft ignored him. "Isla, it's nearly six, we need to go."

"Just take the clothes out of my car. I'm going to crash here tonight," she said tossing him the keys. Which he dropped.

"You are?" Sherlock asked.

"You have a problem with that?"

"No. Actually, while you're here, you may as well look at some samples I've been compiling. I'm creating a database of ash-"

"Isla, didn't you listen? You're coming to the Minister's Ball tonight too. I've set everything up and you're running late."

"What?"

"I tried to tell you on the phone," he said pointedly. She almost regretted hanging up on him. "I think you're ready to do some field work."

Sherlock laughed. "Oh right, that's definitely proper field work. Sitting next to your brother dear for the whole night while he watches you like a hawk and crusty old men hit on you. Why on earth would you ever want to do that?"

"I've got you a sample of ash," Isla said, handing him the cigarette. His face fell slightly as she got up and followed Mycroft. "See you Sherlock," she called over her shoulder.


	15. Fourteen

Isla had always liked the way she looked, like a cross between her two brothers. Wild curls like Sherlock, though their color was the same auburn color as Mycroft's. The same light blue eyes they all shared.

Though now, after Mycroft's people were done with her, she felt as though she had lost that. Her curls were gone, hair pulled back into an elegant updo. She wore the dress she had picked up, black, and strapless, cut to hug her curves until mid-thigh, when it gently flowed out. The back dropped low into a V, showing nearly all of her back. She looked in the mirror with heavily shadowed eyes, surveying her image.

She felt rather like a female Mycroft, all grace and good-breeding. She pulled a lone curl down from in front of her ear. It made her feel better.

Mycroft entered the room. "You're all set then? We're running a bit late now, thanks to your stopover."

He held the door open for her, ever the gentleman. She turned to him, her brows furrowed. "Mye, why exactly am I going with you?"

"I thought you would have got that right away. I have been assured by your instructors that you were clever."

"Ha, ha," she said dryly, ignoring his jab. "This isn't exactly field work. Why do you want me here?"

"I need someone to listen, I can't possibly do it all alone."

"That's all?" she said, her heart sinking.

"What's wrong with that? It's the party of the year, Isla, you should be excited."

"I thought you really needed my help."

"I do. I need you to listen."

"Well that's not exactly a mission. It's not exactly dangerous."

"I would have thought you'd have had enough danger for a lifetime."

Isla stared at him a long moment. Then she hugged him tightly around the middle. He seemed taken aback, patting her awkwardly on the back. She knew he was just trying to protect her, knew it was the guilt over what had happened in Yemen, even after all these years.

She stepped back, cocking her head to the side. "I'm just getting started."

He turned and made his way out. Isla followed, pausing only to fit her handgun into the holster strapped to her ankle. Mycroft glanced back, but only in time for him to see her re-adjusting the hem of her dress.

* * *

**Ok, so not so much action in the last two chapters, but trust me, its leading up to something. Next Chapter will be the Minister's Ball. Any predictions?**


	16. Fifteen

"Mycroft Holmes and Anastasia Harrison. Yes, we've got you right here, go on ahead," the man at the door said, waving them through the double doors jovially. Isla's mouth twitched at she heard the name, still foreign to her ears. Mycroft had thought he was being clever, picking that name. _She who will rise again_. And it was, but she missed her own, missed the ring of it. Sometimes she would lie awake at night, just repeating it over and over, as if she would forget it if she stopped.

The party already seemed to be in full swing by the time they arrived. Couples swirled around the floor like glittering insects, their crystal champagne flutes catching the light as a band played a brassy tune in the corner. Mycroft, however, seemed unimpressed. Isla recognized many of the faces around her, some from the papers and others from Mycroft's files. She split her time between watching Mycroft's face and those he was talking to, mentally cataloguing those to take an interest in. Mycroft worked his way around the room; he seemed to know everyone, though she wasn't surprised. She followed, half a step behind, respectively deferring all conversation back to him. At a look from him though, she excused herself and made her way back along the walls. She could hear bits of Serbian here, French there, a boisterous American by the bar. She paused, however, as she heard to men conversing quietly in Russian, their faces serious. One she recognized as Ambassador Krisdov, the other entirely unfamiliar.

"He assures me the message was received, though Tasha's people still see unwilling to see things our way."

"I thought he said he was the best. How can he be the best if he can't deal with a simple problem like Tasha? Three dead and still-"

He broke off as Isla moved closer. Her heart was pounding, his words playing back in her ears. _Three dead. Message._ She smiled, making a quick decision. She couldn't let them know she had been eavesdropping.

"Excuse me?" she said, flipping her accent as easily as if it were a coin. She could see them relax as she slipped into a thick, Gaelic accent. Stupid of them really, but it seemed human nature. "Are you Ambassador Krisdov? I've heard much about your success working with the Parliamentary Committee on Foreign Relations. It's an honor." She turned to the other man as she shook the Ambassador's hand. "I'm so sorry, I don't seem to recognize you."

"My name is Anton," he said with a coy smile. "I am here simply on business. And you are?"

"Aisling. Aisling Winters," she said, pulling the first two names that popped into her head. The second stung like a hot iron.

"It is truly a pleasure to meet you," Anton said, his eyes tracing over her figure. Her phone beeped, sending a rush of relief through her.

"Sorry, I've got to take this. It's a working party for me," she said, stepping back. They nodded, turning back to their conversation. She stopped a respectful distance away to dig into her purse, though still close enough to overhear.

"The police here have been poking around."

"Have they found anything?"

"Nothing they can identify without DNA."

"At least he is good at his job."

Isla pulled out her phone. Sherlock had texted her, something about windows, but she was already dialing. He picked up on the second ring.

"Can't you text?"

"Mé tar éis a fuair tú luaidhe eile," she said quickly, the words tumbling out of her mouth. Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Why the hell are you speaking Gaelic?"

"I can't risk someone overhearing. I'm standing next to your murderers." The line was silent, then "Isla, get out of there, get Mycroft and go."

"What?"

"Just listen, this thing is bigger than you know."

"Sherlock-"

"I'm on my way, just go."

The line went dead.

She hung up, eying the pair once more, her trepidation growing. They were still deep in conversation, though she couldn't hear them over the whirring in her mind. She glanced down once more, flipping her phone to the record feature before deftly dropping it under one of the tables as she passed by the pair once more on her way back to Mycroft. She held her breath, hoping they didn't hear the thump as it landed on the carpet, but it seemed she had succeeded. She crossed the room, a foreboding feeling settling in her stomach.

She spotted Mycroft, holding court at one of the larger tables. She didn't bother with pleasantries, merely leaned down and whispered into his ear. "Mye, we've got a situation."

He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. One of the men at the table, portly, with white hair said, "Mycroft, where have you been hiding this creature all evening?" The others laughed. From their flushed faces she gathered they'd had a bit to drink.

"I'm sure it's nothing. Enjoy the party."

"Mycroft-" she hissed, but he turned back to the group, clearly unperturbed. "Then stay over here and keep your head down. And you are going to owe me so-" she broke off mid-whisper, her eyes fixing on a woman who'd just entered.

She was gorgeous and Russian, Isla guessed from her delicate features. She had long red hair left natural down her back and flashing blue eyes, eyes that found Anton and Krisdov straight away. Isla immediately guessed this was Tasha, the woman they had spoken off. Isla crossed without a second glance, her eyes fixed on the trios murderous glares.

She stayed out of sight, using the half-light to meld into the shadows along the windows. She could see Anton's hand twitch to his waistband, where she now noticed the tell-tale bulge at the back of a concealed handgun. She mentally kicked herself for not noticing it before. She was glad she had brought her own now and not let into her notions of its excessiveness.

She was close enough now, close enough to hear.

"-Foul, _evil_ man!" Tasha spat, her eyes intent on the Ambassador. His own eyes remained cold and calculating.

But Isla was so focused on Anton, so focused on his hand as it went for his gun that she missed Tasha's move. She pulled her own and fired twice. The first shot went wide, shattering the window behind Isla, but the second buried itself in the Ambassador's chest.

Everything around Isla slipped into slow motion. She rose from a stoop she hadn't realized she'd been in, simultaneously pulling her own gun. She fired in one liquid movement, her shot hitting the woman in the center of the forehead. Anton turned, but she was read for him even as he pulled his gun, three shots buried themselves into his chest before he was able to pull the trigger.

The room was in pandemonium. Screams pounded against her ears, the sounding of running feet drums. She sunk to the ground, fitting her gun back in its holster with expert hands, eyes falling on Anton. His eyes were glossy, chest stained with red.

She glanced up as she felt eyes on her, that strange prickly sense of knowing. Dark, intelligent eyes stared back at her, a thin man in an expensive tuxedo, brown hair slicked back, his mouth twisted into a crooked grin. Her mouth fell open.

She would have recognized that face anywhere. She could never forget those eyes, sparkling in the worst of situations-

But then he was gone, disappeared into the crowd of black and white. She tried to follow, but was pushed back. The blow knocked her to her senses. She darted through the crowd, pushing her way to the nearest exit. She needed to get away, needed to scrub the powder burns from her hands and clothes, she needed to make sure there was no blood on her, she needed to make sure this couldn't be traced back to her, no matter what shields Mycroft could create.

She moved through the panicked crowd as fast as she dared. Nobody so much as looked at her, their eyes trained on the building as the police arrived and sirens wailed above. She slipped into a side alley, hoping to disappear in the shadows. Her heart hammered in her chest, so loud it seemed to drown everything else out. She concentrated on this, just on the pounding of her heart.

"Isla?"

The voice broke her concentration. Her head snapped up, finding her brother's face. His eyebrows were knitted together underneath his curls, his eyes wide. His voice sounded strange, it cracked halfway through the word. She stared back, trying to figure out why, but her thoughts seemed muddy. Sherlock crossed the distance between them, gripping her in both hands as his eyes took her in.

"Oh Isla, what have you done?"

* * *

**Hey Everyone! Here's another chapter. More action, just like I promised! Please please please review!**


	17. Sixteen

Sherlock held tightly onto the tops of Isla's arms, his eyes drawn to the splotches of red across her skin. _Blood._ His heart raced, his mind far out stripping it. He shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around her. She was going into shock he knew. She didn't even seem to realize that she had been injured.

He hurried her towards the other end of the alley, away from the crowd of people and hailed a cab. "St. Bart's," he told the driver as they got in, simultaneously pulling out his phone.

I need you. Emergency. I'll be there in 10. SH

He typed and sent this in a flash, his eyes flicking back up to Isla's face. She was staring at her hands. "Isla?" her head snapped up.

"Yes?"

"Where's Mycroft?"

"I don't know. Safe."

Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft should be making sure she was safe, not the other way around. The ride took far too long. Sherlock threw the money at the cabbie and pulled Isla from the car.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Why are we at the hospital?"

At that moment the front doors opened, and Molly appeared, her face flushed. "What is it Sherlock? Are you ok?"

He pushed past her without a word, leading Isla down the stairs to the mortuary. He could feel her shaking slightly under his grip and it caused a lump to form in his throat, sending memories of two years ago flooding back to him. He picked her up and put her on an autopsy table, ignoring her protests.

"Sherlock-"

"Molly, I'm going to need you to look after her. Off the books. For me, please?" he asked, turning to her. She paused, her expression changing rapidly before rushing out once more. Sherlock turned to her and asked in a low voice, his face inches from hers, "Isla, what happened?"

She looked down, suddenly the ashamed child caught smuggling sweets. But then that expression was gone, replaced with that of cool efficiency. She pulled off his coat, wincing for the first time as the broken glass pulled at her skin. Then she pulled up the hem of her dress and unstrapped a handgun and stowed it in the pocket of his coat before handing it to him.

Molly entered again, carrying a hospital gown and a tray full of medical equipment. He stepped outside the door, allowing them privacy, the gun in his jacket pocket like a lead weight. There was a small portable radio lying on a cart. He flipped it on, listening intently to the crackling voice.

"Three are dead after the attack at the Minister's Ball. Officials are refusing to comment although we now know that all three were Russian nationals. No word yet on suspects."

He turned it back off, his worst fears confirmed. His baby sister was a killer. He turned as he heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by Molly's reassurances.

"I didn't even realize-"

"Luckily, it seems to have only grazed you."

Sherlock stepped back inside the room them, his eyes finding the place at her side where the bullet had struck her, where Molly was sewing her back together. She looked so small, sitting there in nothing but her undergarments, her face ashen. He could see scars running across her skin, tokens from her time in Yemen. Isla didn't look at him as Molly removed the last of the glass and finished her stitching.

"I'll just run up and see if I can find you some pain medicine. They don't tend to send any down here," Molly said with a laugh. Isla smiled.

"It's fine, I'm ok without it-"

"That would be wonderful Molly," he said, flashing his best smile. She blushed and hurried out, leaving them alone together. His smile fell.

"She's in love with you."

Sherlock ignored her. "Did you kill those Russians Isla?"

She gaped at him. "How?"

"What do you mean, how? Honestly Isla, why can't you ever just think? I told you to wait, I told you to get out. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into!"

Her temper flared at that. "I'm not a child anymore Sherlock! I can take care of myself."

"You can't. Just look at you!"

"You've no idea what I'm capable of!"

"Unfortunately, I am well aware of what your line of work entails!"

"Oh get off your high horse! I only fired after the woman killed the Ambassador. I neutralized a very real threat."

"Neutralized? Is that what we're calling it?"

"You don't want to say it any more than I do. What, are you afraid it would be bad for business, seeing as your sister is a murderer?"

"That has nothing to do with-"

"What is it then Sherlock? Because I don't know what else to do."

Molly entered again then, holding a small paper cup of pills. Her eyes were wide. It seemed she had heard. Isla turned towards her and she took a step back.

"Yes, Molly, I killed someone. Two someones. Well, that was just tonight. Sherlock doesn't approve," she said, getting up from the table. Molly hovered by the door, frozen with fear.

"_Isla!" _Sherlock said sharply, his face twisted with fury.

"Of course, it doesn't matter to him why I did it. Did you know they were murderers? That case Sherlock's been working on? The man I shot, he chopped them up. I heard him say so. And the woman shot the Ambassador and me before I shot her. So really, am I the one to be frightened of?"

"That is quite enough," Mycroft said as he entered, his voice sounding deadly. "Now if you repeat any of this," he said, turning to Molly, "Well I'm sure you can quite guess the sort of people you are dealing with. Now scuttle."

She did so, a relieved look on her face. Mycroft closed the door behind her.

* * *

**So another update. Not quite sure about this one so far. Please review!**


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